Memory of North Carolina woods—

by M. Hoffman

Crickets’ voices pulsing,

               I

Alone,     thrillingly,

Silhouettes of branches like fingers fading,

Darkness          seeping through,

Trunk

Shooting up

Against my back,

Leaning on          me as

I lean on it.

Deep, exotic awareness--

Warm soup washing

                My

Throat,        softly,

Air in breath like beats beginning,

Damp hair                   curling up,

Dirt

Sifting

Beneath my toes,

Creeping up          my legs, as

I stay still.

…To know, this is happening everywhere.